Don't get used to second chances
by We'reAllABitOdd
Summary: The World decides to give Allen Walker a second chance. Without his memory he is reincarnated into a world so different from his own. The world of Harry Potter is not ready for a reborn exorcist.
1. Step one of a second chance

The cries of the baby filled the hospital room as the mother was tempted to start crying too. Her husband was in jail and she was exhausted and in pain. And for what? The baby was disfigured, its tiny little left arm bright red and rough and it had a scar running down the left side of its face, red just like his arm. It started on his forehead, un upside-down star with a line that cut through his eyes, a horizontal line below the closed eyelid, before curving towards his mouth.

But she didn't cry. No. She took the tiny little devil in her arms, staring at it in disdain as she held it away from her body. In the hospital room that had suddenly become silent when the tiny baby had stopped crying, she screamed.

The baby never learned his name, his mother hardly talked to him and when she did she called him a devil child and blamed him for everything wrong in her life. He hated the fact that he could understand every hateful word she said to him but couldn't retort. He hated the fact that he could feel the way her bruising hands dug their way into his tender skin and her sharp nails cut little, red lines.

It only got worse when his hair started to grow properly. At first she thought the thin, pale strands of hair on his head would grow light blonde like her husband's. But they gre pure white, like the hair of an old man. She didn't stop to think that maybe she was traumatising the poor thing. Instead she gave up.

The old homeless man could hear desperate crying coming from the back alley. It sounded like a baby. He ran down the alley, looking at all the piles of rubbish and bin bags and soggy cardboard boxes that sat in the rain. The crying got louder as the rain got heavier and the wind more bitter. He ran as fast as his old, thin legs could carry him, peering into all of the boxes until he found the baby.

The kid was probably less than a year old and he was positively tiny. He knew what babies looked like, with pudgy, soft limbs and chubby cheeks and wide eyes. They weren't nearly as thin as this. Panicking, he picked up the baby and ran from the alley.

When people walked past the old man, cradling the baby close to his chest they were more than willing to give him their change. He was glad. He needed to feed the poor thing.

He and his friends cooed at the baby as they fed him, watching him giggle and smile for the first time, unperturbed by the yellowing bruises and red lines on his white skin.

"Does he have a name?" One woman asked, looking at the man.

He made a face "Whoever left him didn't leave him with one, but I suppose I could name him,"

"You should," the woman encouraged.

"Allen," He said "Allen Walker,"

Allen had been with the old man for nine years before the old man died and, with only the clothes on his back and a packet of cards in his pocket, he was taken to the local orphanage.

It was the middle of an ordinary term Harry Potter was as bored as ever. He got by with his school work and ignored the great, fat lump that was Dudley. Then the monotony was interrupted by the arrival of a new student on one random Tuesday. Looking back on it, it may well have been the best Tuesday of Harry's life.

"This is Allen Walker," the teacher introduced, gently pushing the boy forwards. He was as thin as Harry Potter, quite possibly more so, and one of the shortest kids in the class. He had soft white hair (in his time on the streets it had been caked with all kinds of dirt that often made it look grey, brown or black) and a scar cutting across half of his face that made Harry's own look like little more than a pinprick. He smiled warily, waving a gloved hand that Harry found himself eyeing.

"He's never had a formal education before," The teacher continued and Harry watched Allen glare at the floor with silver eyes that he couldn't help but find mildly unnerving "So please be nice to him," She smiled and turned to Allen "There's an empty seat next to Harry that you can take. Harry, could you please raise your hand?"

So he did and the strange new boy sat next to him. He grabbed a pen from a pot on the middle of the table and held it comfortably in his hand. He was slipped an easy French worksheet by his new teacher. Harry watched his bright eyes scan over the worksheet in what he assumed was confusion. He was just about to offer him whatever help he could before he watched Allen let out a little laugh that made the teacher look back at him, flummoxed. She shook her head and continued handing around the levelled worksheets to the class.

Allen quickly filled out the worksheet with neat, old-fashioned cursive and a slightly out-of-practice hand. He distantly wondered why he understood the language so clearly.

"Excuse me miss," He put his hand in the air as he had seen other children do as they requested held, drumming his fingers on the blue table as Harry stared at his sheet in confused awe.

"Yes, Allen?" The teacher walked over with a kind expression on her young face "Do you need help?"

"No, Miss," he responded which bewildered her slightly "J'ai fini," he smiled. She picked up his worksheet and looked, reading the cursive with eyes that steadily widened "Well done, Allen. Would you like to have a go at the middle worksheet or would you prefer to go straight to the difficult one?"

"I think the harder one," he said. The teacher agreed and slid him the sheet of paper that was covered with much smaller text. He worked through it with the same ease as he had the first as Harry sat beside him, struggling and wondering when the class had learned half of the material they were expected to know. It appeared as though half of the class was having the same struggle as him.

"I thought you'd never been to school before?" Harry asked Allen with confusion as he finished yet another worksheet with a flourish.

Allen smiled politely, the very same smile that made so many people pityingly give him their change when he was living on the streets. "I haven't," he answered "If I'm honest I'm not quite sure why I know this,"

"I suppose it isn't a bad thing that you do," Harry laughed lightly. Allen returned the favour.

They spent breaktime together, Allen happy he had been able to make a friend and Harry glad that someone finally appeared to be immune to the rumours and taunting of Dudley's gang that almost infallibly kept people away from Harry.

"So, why have you not been to school before?" Harry asked tentatively as the two of them sat in the library, curled up on bean bags next to shelves full of children's books, away from the noise and excitement of the other children and, most likely, the bullying that would ensue if they spent their break out on the playground.

"Oh, umm," Allen looked around the shelves as though he were trying to find a book to read "Old man Walker found me in a box," Harry was surprised to see him smile, supposing it was at the memory of the man rather than the box "And he raised me on the streets. He refused to send me to the orphanage so I only went there when he died. They insisted I go to school," he shrugged.

"But," Harry shuddered "but what about your parents?"

"Not sure," He screwed up his face "My mum left me in a box as a one-year-old so I don't really miss them,"

Harry smiled sadly "My parents died when I was one,"

Allen smiled at him encouragingly. Harry looked back at him, happier than he could ever remember being.

Allen insisted that Harry spend some time outside with him after school and the other boy was happy to comply.

"I couldn't come out here alone," Allen grinned as he sat on the swing, kicking the dry, autumn leaves underfoot with his scuffed, second-hand leather school shoes "I'd get lost,"

Harry scrunched his brow, looking at Allen while caught somewhere between amusement and concern "The orphanage is three streets away,"

"Yeah, with my sense of direction I'd probably end up walking out of Surrey trying to get back,"

"That's not possible," Harry pushed his glasses up his nose,

"Oh, Potter - you do not want to underestimate me,"

"How did you ever survive on the street?"

"No comment,"

The sun set over the park as the old watch on Allen's wrist ticked on to five. It wasn't late but it was cold and neither of them particularly wanted to return to the buildings they couldn't quite call home.

Allen didn't dislike the orphanage entirely, the caretakers were nice and there was more food than he could ever remember having in his life. There was heating that they'd turn on in the mornings before the kids left for the varying schools that they went to and comfortable beds in rooms they only had to share with two other kids. But there were too many kids for the carers to spend much time with any individual and the other kids tended to avoid him, scared of the new arrival with the strange limb and face and hair. Even a few of the adults were wary around him and he didn't know whether to blame that on his appearance or his past - it hurt either way.

He remembered arriving at the orphanage, feeling awkward dressed in a tattered coat, a shirt that was far too big and shorts that left his skinny, white legs exposed to the autumn winds. One of the old man's friends was with him and, as Allen hung back with his head facing down so his overgrown hair covered the upper portion of his face and the rest was buried in the collar of the coat that had clearly been made for a much larger person than he would probably ever be, she knocked on the door. Allen played anxiously with the fingers of his mismatched gloves as he could hear footsteps sounding in various places around the orphanage. Sharp, clicking footsteps pattered across the floor, distinctly sounding like high heels. Allen would bet all the money he had made playing poker with grown men - he had no memory of learning how to play (or cheat) - that his companion couldn't hear them yet. The heavy door at the front of the building swung open to reveal a motherly, kind face framed with auburn hair. She wore a long, black dress with a white cardigan sitting on her wide shoulders. Her nose was crooked and her lips were thin but there was something about the way that she smiled with her dark eyes and thin, painted mouth that made Allen think she was beautiful.

"Oh!" She looked at them with surprise "hello dears, can I help you?"

"Yes," Allen's companion smiled "This is Allen," She gently pushed him forwards and he looked up. With a face like his it was almost akin to testing the waters, seeing how a person would react to the scar he desperately wished he knew the origin of. The middle-aged woman recoiled minutely before attempting to hide her surprise.

"We would like you to take him in," Allen's companion told her "We found him abandoned nine years ago and the man that looked after him died recently," Allen's eyes turned stormy and he kicked a stone "The rest of us do not believe our living conditions are what is best for him,"

"Well thank you, can I show you both in so we can fill out the necessary forms?"

"Sure,"

So they walked into the long, narrow hallway and relished in the sudden warmth. The woman silently led them to a room at the end of the corridor. They walked in through the door and sat on dark wooden chairs with patterned cushions as the woman took a seat on the other side of the desk that was littered with neat stacks of paperwork and haphazard stationary. There was a fish tank in the corner filled with brightly coloured fish that Allen chose to watch rather than the woman's tan face.

The door behind them opened and closed with a loud noise and dress shoes tapped on the floor. The man stopped in front of Allen, standing tall between him and the rectangular tank. He bent his knees and leant back on his heels so that he was on the same level as Allen.

"Hello," He smiled, holding out a brown hand for Allen to shake. Not wanting to seem rude, he took it.

"Hello," he returned in a soft, young voice that managed to cover some of his nervousness. He raised his head and tore his eyes from the fish.

"What's your name?" The man asked.

"Allen," he smiled, feeling a little bit more comfortable in his own skin when he saw the man's distinct lack of reaction to his face and hair.

"Nice to meet you Allen," He smiled and, as the skin stretched, Allen noticed a surgical scar spanning between his upper lip and nose "I'm Joe,"

"So," the woman began with a red smile "Allen we have to answer a few questions for you, is that okay?"

"Sure," he nodded, reading the woman's name tag. It labelled her Annabelle.

Another red smile followed "Good. So, Allen, do you have a legal guardian?" Allen fiddled with the cards in his pocket, wondering how much of what he had actually done with his life was actually legal. It was a startlingly low percentage.

"Maybe legally it's still my mother?" He questioned "But no one I could possibly get you in touch with,"

"Thank you Allen," Another red-lipped smile made all past and future ones seem increasingly unbelievable "Date of birth?"

"Not sure," he shrugged, used to the answer "But we think I'm ten and old-man-Walker found me on Christmas so we call that my birthday,"

"Okay Allen," he liked Joe much more than Annabelle "Education?"

"Nil,"

She ran through a series of similar questions, many of which he had no valid answer for. He wondered how many kids showed up with the same answers as his.

"Thank you and, Allen Walker, welcome to the Little Whinging Orphanage," She took Allen's outerwear, looking at his red hand for a moment but trying not to react. She had heard about it before, when she asked about medical conditions, but she wasn't expecting it to be nearly as bright of a crimson as it was.

Joe showed him to the room that he was to share with two other boys, both three years older than him, that looked at him with fear for a moment before bursting out laughing the moment Joe left. Allen saw red. He turned around and punched the closest piece of furniture, leaving a hole in the wooden dresser. His white knuckles were suddenly red but he ignored the sting as he looked at the boys with stormy eyes. The laughter reverted back to fear as they ran out of the room wordlessly, heading to the grassy garden where a number of other squealing kids played.

Allen walked into the nearest bathroom and ran his hand under the tap, watching the blood wash away, made translucent by the cold water that helped diminish the pain which, honestly, wasn't all that bad in the first place. He wrapped his knuckles quickly in bandages he found beneath the sink with a practised ease he didn't know he had. Shaking his head, he walked back into the room, noting the distinct smell of sweat and mothballs, laying down on the spare bed and pulling the blanket up over himself. He dozed off despite the fact that the evening was only just arriving.

The next morning when he took the bandage off he saw that the skin had already knitted itself back together and there was no trace of bruising to be found.

Harry lead Allen back to the orphanage before hesitantly returning to the Dursley's awful home where he had to quickly change into clothes that were not his school uniform so that he could make dinner for the grown man and woman that were far too lazy to make their own. He turned the oven on and poured the drinks.

As they sat around the table eating Dudley decided to bring up Allen. Harry was more than happy to talk about his new friend but the way that Dudley was talking about him made harry angry, angrier than he had been for a long while. Dudley's glass shook for a moment before the glass broke and the sugary soda spilled all over the table cloth. Harry dug his teeth into his lip - he'd have to clean that up when the Dursleys were done with their dinner, before they let him anywhere near their leftovers.

Dudley stared at the stain and pile of broken glass in wonder as Harry noticed the eyes of his aunt and uncle focusing on him aggressively. He didn't understand why but he desperately wanted to shrink away, even if it meant returning to that cramped cupboards with all of its spiders, cobwebs and dust.

They went on a field trip a few weeks later, to the British museum. The drive to London wasn't too long but it was long enough. Harry sat on the cramped coach next to Allen, talking to the white-haired boy non-stop as the hours ticked by. When they arrived they were taken straight through to the section displaying the Victorian era. They looked at the grand ball gowns and whale-bone corsets that Harry could practically feel crushing his ribs. As they walked around in a unit Harry listened intently as Allen rattled off little titbits about the era and its inventions and culture that, much like the French from the class when they had first met, there was no logical way that he should know.

They looked at the sculptures and paintings and pottery and all the other decorative pieces in awe, wondering just how long many of them had survived and how well preserved they had been.

"I wonder," Allen said, resting his chin in his hand. Harry noticed he was, yet again, wearing gloves that were definitely not part of the uniform and, almost certainly, against the school rules. Still, the teachers said nothing about them so harry wasn't about to pretend that he had any authority or, really, any reason to notify Allen "Just how many pieces like this," he pointed up at a nearby renaissance painting of a woman in an extravagant dress "have been lost to time?"

Harry had never really thought of that before, but the moment that Allen inserted the thought into his head he couldn't remove it. How many things that were considered important, monumental or life-changing at their point of relevance had since disappeared? How many people had done the same? What about he and Allen? Would they do the same?

Allen gently tugged at the fairly long strands of his straight, alabaster hair as the group moved on and they stayed behind for a moment. Harry had never had a friend before, but he had watched people and their friends conversing and chatting and gossiping and having fun while he sat on the sidelines. Inclusion felt nice.

"Come on," he urged Harry as they watched their class round a corner and Allen, knowing himself, became scared of getting lost somewhere within the massive building.

Harry nodded his mute response.

They sat and ate their packed lunches at wooden picnic tables beneath colourful trees that were well on their way to becoming bare. They were spread across a number of benches, the other children avoiding Allen and Harry like the two boys. with their scars, short statures and knobbly, wiry limbs. were some sort of communicable disease.

They didn't mind. In the entirety of their day in London they hadn't gotten a whiff of fresh air but the park smelled cleaner than the rest of the city and, in the cold, during a school day, there were very few people aside from the odd jogger or toddler and parent or group of teenagers passing through. They could hear rock music, playing from a nearby open window through speakers that were very clearly turned way up. Allen absentmindedly drummed his fingers to the familiar beat, feeling the worn, unevenness of the table even through his gloves. They opened their lunch boxes and a glance around the area proved to Harry that theirs were far less well-stocked than most. He stared at the bread and butter, pushing the yogurt pot back and forth with his spoon as he pulled out a bottle of water. The only difference between his lunch and Allen's was something that Allen pointed out after explaining the scarcity of his own meal.

"The orphanage isn't rich and they've got a lot of mouths to feed," he dismissed, but his stomach rumbled as though there was no hope of satiating it. Harry went to peel the seal off of the top of his yogurt before Allen stopped him.

"I wouldn't recommend eating that," he warned, brandishing a pale plastic spoon "check the date - you don't want to give yourself food poisoning,"

Harry glanced at the seal between his thumb and forefinger, wishing he had been given the food the month before when it had first been purchased. With a groan he threw it over his shoulder, towards the bin he knew was there.

"You missed," Allen commented dryly. Harry let out another groan as he got up to pick up the pot and actually throw it away properly. He had an urge to crawl inside the bin with it, feeling tired and worn down and hungry.

He and Allen grinned and bared it as Dudley and his gang pelted the backs of their head with morsels of food that they didn't want and the packaging for their numerous snacks that both Harry and Allen would kill for even one of.

"You've never told me," harry spoke slowly as he looked at his friend. Allen already knew what the question was going to be and, because of the person who was asking it, he didn't mind answering "What the deal with the gloves is,"

Harry watched a smile bloom on Allen's face, slightly awkward but not necessarily put out - which he feared may have happened. The smile pulled at the edge of his scar. "It's not really something worth explaining," He said as he pulled off his right glove. It was the same creamy ivory as the rest of his unscarred skin. Then he pulled off the other glove and Harry understood why he wore them. The limb was rough and red, like the colour of blood, with an odd cross embedded in it.

"Oh," Harry responded dumbly.

"Yeah," Allen giggled in a childish tenor that, in a very welcome manner, drew Harry's attention from his arm to his face "oh,"

The Dursleys were fearful. It was clear their unwelcome nephew had not escaped from the freakish nature of his mother. Petunia Dursley wished she didn't dislike her own sister nearly as much as she did, that she could let go of any animosity when the poor woman had been murdered by a wand-wielding maniac. Maybe she would have in a different situation. But she couldn't. Not when the dead girl's son had been left on her doorstep. Not when she was burdened with what was supposed to be the witch's responsibility. Not when she had been roped into having some kind of unwelcome relationship with the world of freaks she regarded so bitterly and had tried for so long to separate from herself. So, when she found a baby on her doorstep, bundled in a blanket with a letter tucked into the baby blue fabric, the abhorrence swelled.

And now it was clear that he had inherited that gene of Lily's that had turned her into what she was, that had gotten her involved with that greasy little Snape boy and then that awful Potter man. Petunia had, once upon a time, been jealous of that weird gene that had cropped up out of nowhere and, though if anyone else asked she would deny it, she still harboured that same feeling that made her stomach churn and put a sour taste in her mouth. SHe wished she didn't, wished that she could feel both normal and content. Maybe she could if she had never learned about the wizarding world. But she had, because of her useless sister that her parents were oh-so proud of, and, because of that, her perfect, content, normal life was completely and utterly ruined.

Petunia Dursley vowed to do her best to pull her nephew away from the land of the wizards. She wasn't going to let Harry ruin Dudley's prospects of a perfect future like Lily had ruined hers. Or at least she was going to try. Still, she knew in some deep down, traitorous part of her body, soul and mind that would not stop screaming at her, that she couldn't. She didn't tell her husband quite how impossible it would be.

The orphanage had been in a bit of disarray since the arrival of Allen Walker, beyond just that scar on his face, the pigment of his hair and the deformity of his arm, he seemed to stir up an indescribable disturbance. Allen Walker had odd habits that caused him to have odd relationships with the other children. Certainly it meant they had little hope of him ever getting adopted - he was destined to age out of the system.

Strange things happened in Allen's presence, like the building itself wanted to react to Allen's feelings and statements. Like it wanted to display the expressions that Allen's pale face oftentimes could not. It was scary and concerning when the wall's rumbled like his stomach when he first arrived and was positively starving, sending fragments of bricks rolling down the walls and across the floor. A window had broken, seemingly without cause, as the teenagers who were only just meeting Allen jeered at him as though he existed as an outlet for their own insecurities. He could see why the old man hadn't wanted him to go there - he would admit he was somewhat tempted to run away back to the street, back to his family out there. But he couldn't. He had promised the old man, before he died but when they were well-aware that he had a few weeks left if his luck hold out as it had been, that he would take care of himself. He knew, as much as he wanted to, running away back onto the streets was not taking care of himself.

 **A/N**

 **I know I have other stories that I need to update but this has been in my head for a while and I've been desperate to write something for D Gray-man for so long that I just had to write this. I've been reading a lot of DGM reincarnation fics recently (the best one I've found is by liketolaugh - it's a crossover with Marvel, it has all the exorcists and it's very good if anyone feels like checking it out) and this plot bunny appeared. It kind of grew and I needed to start writing this before I forgot it because I have a very clear idea of how this is going to go.**

 **Any and all response is more than welcome.**

 **All the best,**

 **We'reAllABitOdd**


	2. The true second beginning

_M_ _y dearest darling,_

 _That child of ours, born of the devil, shall burden us no longer. I know that I am no devil so, my dear, I have to wonder what has cursed us - mayhaps, if you were another, I would be tempted to muse that you are what I am not. However, as I know the warmth in your heart will ignite when passion strikes, even in your cold cell, I know you are no more a devil than I. You have been unfairly imprisoned but at least presently, I am prepared for your return as we have no demon to occupy our time or resources. Perhaps what was unfairly born into this world of ours, bathed in sin that marred its skin, is not yet dead, but now I can be assured that only one worthy of the plights that child will bring will be burdened with it. I eagerly await your return and hope the imprisonment has not changed you my dear and those bitter guards have not washed away your being or motivation._

There was long grass that grew in patches in fields and on gardens in Little Whinging where people rarely traversed. In the middle of a barren space where no one passed, two boys lay between the dewy blades. The sun shone brightly in the watercolour sky of midday and midsummer and warmed their skin.

"Only one more year," Harry Potter smiled "Then no Dudley - at least not at school,"

Allen smiled "Do you know what secondary school you're going to then?"

"Probably one for delinquents, but they will certainly send Dudley to Smeltings,"

Allen knew all about Smeltings, as did Harry. It was the school that Vernon Dursley had gone to, full of spoiled kids that would bully each other by exploiting any weaknesses of the other spoiled kids. They wore uniforms that made Harry want to laugh and employed pompous teachers that spoke a forced version of the queen's English. Honestly, neither boy had any modicum of desire to attend the prestigious school.

A new start was what they needed, away from everyone they knew, who knew the manipulated form of them that Dudley had concocted to repel prospective friends. But there was one person they did not want to lose.

"We need to go to the same school," Allen commented. Harry hummed and nodded, forearm thrown across his face to shelter his emerald eyes from the blinding brightness.

"And you need a haircut," he giggled, soft, young voice carried by the wind that caused the grass in which they lay to sway around them, dancing to the soft tune of the music they could hear playing distantly.

Allen hissed jokingly, pulling at the hair he still had not cut from the day they had met and casting it over his shoulders.

"Why bother?" He joked "Besides, have you seen your hair? You are in no position to talk,"

Allen was right, of course. Harry's hair grew into a large mess that he couldn't hope to tame. The dark waves fell over his forehead, masking the thin, red scar in the shape of a stylised lightning bolt.

When school started again, there was a focus on their upcoming SAT test. Allen and Harry both tried their best, Allen distinctly better with the language aspects than the mathematics and science. Harry wasn't bad but he wasn't the best, like he was hovering in some unremarkable grey area alongside the majority of the class. If only both boys knew, when they filled out the varying test papers, that they would not need the material ever again.

Owls started to swarm around Little Whinging, once a rare sight even at night but suddenly a common sight even in the broad daylight. There were all variations of the supposedly nocturnal birds that landed on the front garden of number four privet drive. The inhabitants of the house grew more and more frustrated as the days went on and, with each new wave of owls came a new wave of heavy parchment envelopes with the address of their recipient written in viridian cursive. When a flood of identical letters came spilling down the chimney, Vernon Dursley had to give in, for he couldn't live like that.

The family left for a cheap motel but, when that proved to provide no shelter from the incessant onslaught of letters addressed to a certain Harry James Potter, Vernon shipped them off again, to an old, worn-down, wooden cabin on a craggy rock in the middle of an angry grey sea.

Still, as Petunia predicted, they could not escape what their nephew was.

Meanwhile, at the little whinging orphanage, Annabelle and Joe were very startled when the letter appeared outside of their door on Sunday. Both the day of delivery and the delivery itself were suspect. It was an old-fashioned letter with old-fashioned writing and a rather noticeable heft to it. But that wasn't the problem, the problem was the address. It was specific enough to specify something that no one outside of the orphanage, bar a few friends of the children, should know - it was addressed to Allen Walker at the Little Whinging Orphanage, room number fourteen, the bed nearest the door.

Frightened that they might startle one of the other children if they talked about it publically, they ushered Allen to the little office where they had first discussed his paperwork. He sat down on the geometrically patterned chair and watched the fish that had, since his arrival, been his responsibility to clean and feed.

Joe sat down on the chair next to his as Annabelle settled herself across the desk, both looking serious.

"Here," Joe said in his usual warm, smooth tone, sliding an odd envelope to Allen. He nodded politely as he carefully tore the wax seal up and pulled the first part of the letter out. On the parchment was written something that, had the person to whom it was addressed been anyone but Allen they would have disregard as complete and utter poppycock. But when shaking walls and instantly-healing wounds were involved, they couldn't simply disregard it.

Allen read the letter. The words didn't make much sense, but, at the same time, they explained so much. He could feel a bubble of disbelief grow in his chest but he had a feeling it wasn't nearly as large or suffocating as it probably should have been. He felt almost accustomed with the oddities that suddenly filled his head.

He, Allen Walker, was a wizard. And it all made so much sense.

Harry could feel the little boat rock and jerk over the rushing waves, powering along quickly with the great giant of a man - Rubeus Hagrid.

"Where are we going, Hagrid?" Harry asked, suddenly looking up from the cinereal waves that pushed them along.

"We'll be heading to Diagon alley soon," he said gruffly, his little, black beetle eyes glittering "So you can pick up your things for school. But there's something else we've got to pick up first,"

"What is it?" Harry asked, shivering in non-weather appropriate clothing.

"A boy, a boy named Allen Walker," Harry felt his face split into a large smile and, while he could not see Hagrid's mouth due to it being obscured by the masses of matted, greying beard surrounding it, Harry was sure he was grinning too.

They picked Allen up from the familiar orphanage that Harry had visited a number of times before and, instantly, he and Allen returned to their usual fashion of friendly, easy conversation. The only difference was the fact that, this time around, they had something brand new and very exciting to talk about.

"Looks like we're going to the same secondary school!" Harry exclaimed as Allen stepped down from the doorstep, his old, scuffed trainers silent on the walkway leading to the door that was gradually becoming overrun with the fresh verdigris of the overgrown grass.

"And here I was," Allen chuckled "thinking that would be impossible when I read that letter,"

"What are the odds?" Harry breathed, gazing around in wonder as though he were seeing the familiar scenery from a completely new perspective.

Allen didn't have an answer, but he had an entirely new topic of conversation.

"But did you see the look on Joe and Annabelle's faces when they opened the door?" His laugh filled the mostly quiet atmosphere in the vicinity, filling it with a sort of childlike mirth. Hagrid glanced over his broad shoulder and down at the two short children, glad to see the Harry Potter he had delivered as a baby to the family that had so clearly been dragging him down as happy as he was in that moment, in the company of a very good friend.

The stark difference between little Whinging and London was stark but neither boy would say anything bad about the city when all it made them think of was that school-arranged excursion that had further deepened their friendship. Still, good memories did not stop the stench of exhaust pipes and industry from permeating the air. There was a mismatched conglomerate of music blasting through open windows that all mingled together before being drowned by the conversations in the streets and the cars commuting down the busy roads.

Harry looked at the extensive equipment list in his hands. A wand, robes, a cauldron, and all other kinds of unusual things.

"Hagrid, can we really get all of this in London," he tilted his head to the side.

"Only if you know where to look," He tapped his nose and lead them down the street with a mission. They crossed a few more roads and bumped into a few more white-collar workers before they found themselves standing outside the threshold of an old pub with a very unappetising name.

It called itself the leaky cauldron.

They walked in and Allen couldn't stop himself from yawning. The second he closed his mouth he inhaled a significant quantity of dust and sneezed. Harry tried to suppress the urge to do the same as Hagrid pushed them forward, through the crowd of strangely dressed people. The pub, as many did, smelled strongly of stale alcohol and food. The same could be sad of a number of the pub's patrons, though many smelled worse and of much stranger things.

"Hello Tom," Hagrid said to the man behind the bar who was wiping away at the inside of a glass with an off-white rag.

"Hello Hagrid," the man greeted with a lopsided smile that, due to the unfortunate lighting, was made to look sinister by the strange, dark shadows on his pale face "The usual, I presume?"

"Not today Tom," Hagrid waved one of his inhumanly large hands in polite dismissal "I'm taking young Harry and Allen to get their stuff for school,"

"Well I never!" The man exclaimed, leaning over the counter and craning his thin neck so he could look at Harry properly "It's Harry Potter!"

Every eye in the pub turned to Harry and he suddenly felt very small. He was thrust a few hands that, unsurely, he shook as all kinds of gossip about him filled the space. He understood none of it. The crowd fizzled out in good time but, ever since the moment the attention had been shifted, Allen could feel intense eyes focused on him although he could not quite trace them to any one person. He only wished their intensity would fizzle out. A shiver ran up and down his spine like a series of tiny hands clawing their way across it. He hunched his shoulders and bowed his head and tried to make himself as small and unnoticeable as he could hope to be.

One particular voice surfaced after the others had gone. It stuttered Harry's name and he turned to find who was speaking. It was a man with a large turban balanced on top of his frail head. Hagrid introduced him as professor Quirrell, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts. They would get to know him better over the course of the year, Hagrid said. Honestly, what Harry and Allen were really anticipating getting to learn more about during the year was simply what exactly the subject of Defense Against the dark Arts was about.

Hagrid excused them from the dank interior of the pub, pulling them into an alley behind it, besides the bins. They had escaped the damp smell of the inside of the pub that made mould grow up the walls and ceiling, they could barely see it in the dim light but were sure was there. But one unpleasant stench was replaced by another: there was a sweet smell that came from the bins, one that felt like it went straight to their heads and tangled itself around their brains. Harry and Allen scrunched their noses. They wished the strong smell of alcohol that had lingered even outside was just a little stronger, strong enough to mask the smell of the bins.

Hagrid drew his umbrella from one of his many oversized pockets. Harry cast a confused glance at it, remembering what it had done to Dudley and suppressing a giggle as he thought about the little, curly, pink tail. Allen looked at him, unsure.

Hagrid looked over the brick wall in front of them before tapping a few select bricks with the end of his umbrella as he muttered something unintelligible under his breath. Nothing happened for a moment and harry and Allen just stared with raised eyebrows as they waited. It was clear Hagrid was expecting something to happen but they couldn't hope to predict what. Harry was about to question what Hagrid was doing but then it finally took effect.

The beige bricks began to move, shifting apart until they began to open in the centre. They pulled apart and Harry and Allen could see a steadily growing glimpse of what lay beyond it. At first it was just colours, part of the side of a building, fabrics that swayed around moving bodies. Then there were noises, conversations that remained mostly unintelligible. Then it opened a little more and they could see down the centre of an alley lined with all manner of intriguing, eccentric shops that oddly dressed people traversed between. Some looked determined, like they were searching for something very particular, others mad, others happy. There were a few kids their age and younger that looked around in disbelieving wonder, especially those dressed in a fashion not dissimilar to their own.

"What is this place," Allen asked, noting exactly how many ways there were for him to get himself lost.

"Welcome," Hagrid began as he gently pushed them through the arch the brick had formed and into the weird street "to Diagon Alley,"

Allen was determined not to let himself get lost so he stuck close to Hagrid's leg and tried not to be distracted by everything around him. It was difficult. Harry didn't even try. He kept falling behind his friend and guide as he stopped to admire all of the strange shops and their window displays that were nothing like he had ever seen before. It was almost surreal to think that he would be seeing them again.

They stopped after coming up to an imposing building of white stone that stood at an odd angle. Hagrid led them up the marble stairs, to the grand front doors. Allen read the plaque mounted on the wall beside them, like a sinister warning to all those who dared enter the grand, imposing building, as if they were not welcome. Allen stepped through the heavy door that Hagrid held open for him, immediately stepping from the relative warmth of the sunlit outdoors to the frigid confines of the old building.

People milled about, following various paths to various desks, dressed in the same mix of attire as the people outside in a relatively similar proportion. Footsteps clacked across the tiled floors, tracking dirt across the floor they could only imagine had been white that morning before the work day began. It would be clean again the next day.

The employees sitting behind the desks were not quite human. Their eyes were dark and beady and beetle-like - somewhat reminiscent of Hagrid's - and their statures were about knee-high to the average man. They had larged, hooked noses and sallow skin that fell in wrinkles, resulting in all of them looking as though they should be superannuated.

Hagrid's twinkling eyes scanned the large room quickly, familiarly, before he headed to a desk with a short queue before it. On the other side of that queue was an antique mahogany escritoire that a goblin with small spectacle perched on his nose sat behind.

"We would like to withdraw some money for Mr. Harry Potter," Hagrid announced, booming voice echoing around the empty space.

"And does Mr. Potter have his key?" The goblin leaned over, peering down at Harry from his elevated seat as if regarding some seemingly insignificant organism through the scope of a microscope. Harry could almost hear the dramatic music that he felt, were the event embedded within a film, would swell as the creature slowly leaned forwards.

Then, suddenly, as though an elephant had fallen and crushed the instrument beneath it, Hagrid broke in and the goblin sat back, clearly aware his over-dramatised moment had been ruined.

"I had it here," Hagrid muttered to himself, his so-called muttering being a similar volume to most people's regular speech. He reached deep inside his seemingly bottomless pockets and pulled out multifarious items. As hagrid scattered half crushed dog biscuits across the polished escritoire the goblin looked at him with disapproving disgust. Hagrid appeared oblivious. He kept digging. Then he procured it from the depths of one of his interior pockets. The key was old fashioned and wrought of a dark metal that had probably grown darker with its age, The goblin took it and inspected it before leading them through a door and into a tunnel that grew gradually darker as they headed down it. The further down they went, the more the stench of mildew filled Allen's nose. It was almost a sweet smell, but it was the type of sweetness that felt like it burrowed within you and tied itself around your stomach, lungs and brain, constricting them just enough to make it uncomfortable. Allen breathed it in as he waited for the light to reappear.

Soon after they were guided to a cart on a track that they struggled to fit in. The track led them downwards, rushing quickly deeper and deeper into the Earth. Allen looked up until the ceiling disappeared. He could feel the sting of the wind and the dust and the dirt that flew up with it as it whipped across his face. He didn't mind it. In fact, the rush of the journey made him feel alive, like he was on a rollercoaster. His cheeks went red and his eyes watered and, Harry noticed, in that moment he looked so happy; happier than Harry had ever seen him.

Hagrid, on the other hand, was green, beady eyes squeezed as tightly shut as they could be. His dustbin lid-sized hands were clasped tightly around the side of the cart, hairy knuckles quickly turning white.

They left the bank, Hagrid's green tinge only just beginning to dull. Harry couldn't believe that he finally had money of his own. He had a coin sack in his pocket and he could hear the coins within it jingling. It was so startlingly foreign to him that he couldn't shake the feeling that, at any moment, he would be told to pass the money over to its rightful owner.

Hagrid weaves through the streets, dipping in and out of shops, picking up tome after tome, adding various items from the apothecary and a pewter cauldron to the top of the stack. Allen had giggled in childlike mirth as Harry, whose new fortune caused Allen's school-supplied funds to pale in comparison, tried to insist to Hagrid that he needed to purchase a solid gold cauldron instead. Allen had purposely kept the price tag of that one beyond his line of sight.

Hagrid then made a beeline for a robe shop on the corner. The boys couldn't escape it quick enough. The owner of the shop seemed to be unrelenting throwing comments about their heights (or lack thereof) around. They were then sent to be measured beside a boy who looked so remarkably like a weasel Harry was tempted to muse he had undergone a similar treatment to his cousin who still had the small, bouncy pig tail attached to his rear end.

The boy's voice was soft, both in a prepubescent way and a high-class way, and seemed to slither about. It was like it was an entity of its own, some snake with the most absurd behaviour ever observed within its kind. It moved throughout the room, sending lines of gooseflesh up Harry's arms and making Allen's too-long hair stand up. He spoke of Hogwarts, of his hopes, of his family, but there was something about the way he did it that was just disconcerting. Like he was preaching his ego their inadequacy, like he knew everything and everything he knew was indisputably factual. Allen had a suspicion it might not be.

Their last stop was the oldest shop Harry had seen all day. The storefront was dark, layers of paint peeling away to reveal the aged wood beneath. Painted across the top of it, legibility fading, was the name of the business. Ollivanders.

Hagrid pushed open the old door and it's oxidised hinges creaked as though threatening to become unattached from the frame. A little bell jingled as they stepped into the dark interior of the shop. Allen sniffed the air as he heard shuffling as an old man with silver hair removed himself from a ladder and walked to meet them. It smelled like mildew and must. He sneezed as the dust tickled his nose.

Ollivander greeted Hagrid with familiarity, talking about his wand, snapped long ago, in a way that made Hagrid shuffle uncomfortably in place. The rather childish mannerism appeared mismatched with his hulking frame. He then turned to the children.

"Harry Potter, I remember your parents coming here to get their first wands. Such a shame," Harry nodded mutely, staring at his hands rather than Ollivander's all-seeing bug eyes. They were the same shining silver as his hair and encompassed the same wild energy.

"And Allen…" he paused for a moment as though in consideration or hesitation "Walker. I remember your parents, by birth only of course,"

"I don't," Allen said, so quietly the soft noise didn't even reach his own ears. Yet somehow Ollivander picked up on it, cocking a single bushy, white eyebrow.

"Great wands," he shook his head, melancholy "yet such despicable actions. I hope you never come into contact with those again, Mr. Walker,"

Allen didn't know how to respond, didn't know what he could possibly say. Sure, he knew his mother was a bad person, but now he knew a little more. He knew she was still alive, he knew the same of his father. He knew they weren't just bad people, they were bad wizards. He had come to learn over the course if just that single day what label could be assigned to every bad wizard: murderer.

He wasn't upset. He probably should have been. He felt a foreign sensation tingle up his spine, like it was trying to tear through his flesh and dissociate itself from him and what he had just learned. He was disgusted, but not upset.

Hagrid left, not telling the boys where he was going, only that he'd meet with them once they got their wands. The bell jingled again as he stooped through the narrow door frame.

Ollivander began to measure them, enchanted tape measures dancing through the air. He clapped his hands sharply and they fell lifelessly to the floor. Harry stared at them in disbelieving wonder. Allen just watched Ollivander as he moved between shelves of narrow boxes, he had a feeling he should be more ensorcelled than he was.

Ollivander's thin fingers danced along the edge of some of his boxes. He picked up some, blowing the dust off of each and looking over them for a moment before either replacing them on the shelves or piling them in his arms.

He returned to them, setting the multifarious wands down carefully. He opened one box and placed the decorative wand within it into Harry's hand. He gazed at it, arm stiff, as he waited to be instructed on what to do.

"Well give it a wave!" Ollivander exclaimed, like it was common sense. In hindsight, Harry supposed it was.

Feeling very much silly, he flicked his wrist. The wand did nothing and, before he could even look at it again, Ollivander plucked it from his grip. Then the next wand took its place, then the next, and the next. With each failure Harry felt his heart speed up more and more. The nagging thought in his head he had been trying so hard to suppress grew and grew until his defenses against it became futile. What if he isn't actually a wizard? The idea of a prank became constantly more unlikely but it could still be a mistake. The world of wizards existed, but perhaps Harry wasn't part of it, perhaps something had gone wrong, there had been a typo on the registry. Harry Potter wasn't an uncommon name, perhaps he was just the wrong one. Maybe the scar on his forehead was simply a sick coincidence.

He swallowed his doubts and waved the next wand. A warm sensation filled his body, running up his veins like blood as light bloomed from the wand and surrounded him. He watched it bring a little light to the dank room. He breathed his relief and let his worry dissipate, carried away by the steadily fading glow. Soon it too disappeared.

"Curious, very curious,"

"I'm sorry," Harry felt like he had forgotten how to speak, like his traitorous mouth and tongue were no longer his, like they had migrated in to another "But what's curious?"

"The phoenix whose feather is in this wand," Ollivander examined it with a caring sort of curiosity "gave another feather. Just one other. And it just so happens that wand," he went silent for a brief moment as he took a single gliding step towards Harry. His nimble fingers barely brushed Harry's messy fringe "gave you this scar," his voice dulled to a whisper. Allen shivered as he stared in, maintaining the silence he had kept since Ollivander last addressed him.

"Now," Ollivander's voice was full again as he turned on his heel and faced the white-haired boy who was sat uncomfortably in an old wooden chair that Hagrid had previously broken "Let's see what we can do for you,"

Allen was nothing if not unnerved by the glimmer of apprehensive glee in the old man's insane eyes.

 **A/N**

 **As bad as i am at consistent updates, I would never abandon a story after a single chapter, so fear not. I know someone guessed that Allen might be a Malfoy last chapter and I will say that he is not. However, as this chapter would imply, that isn't that far off. If you really wanna know who they are before I reveal anything, think more obscure, much more obscure, as well as much later into the story of Harry Potter. Thank you for all the reads, reviews, follows and favourites on the last chapter, they are much appreciated and I would love to see what people think of this chapter. You're entitled to an opinion and constructive criticism is more than welcome. Also, I apologise for typos and/or strange formatting. This is written on and uploaded from my phone so it isn't unlikely, also please don't think British spellings are typos, I know sometimes people do and that definitely isn't something I'd be willing to "fix".**

 **All the best,**

 **We'reAllABitOdd**


	3. Where you belong

_My darling we know that our names are not the same and the law does not see us as I do but, even when separated, I know our love cannot be broken by distance and guards and walls. It is such a shame there is nothing here with me to prove it, no child just purchasing their first wand, their robes, sure to soon be accented in our proud emerald, I remember those days, just as I remember that sickening being I am too fearful to call a child, whether that be ours or his demonic majesty's. It should be entering Hogwarts this autumn should it still be gracing this poor Earth with its tainted presence. I fear we have brought a sickness to this Earth, one I could not bring myself to remove first hand. I do not know why I felt this weakness but I know now that if I were to see that marred face hesitation would abandon me and that moment would be its last, I'm sure I can find out, by asking friends who had the fortune needed to birth actual wizards into their glorious bloodlines, whether the demon still walks. I must be subtle, careful, calculated, but this is not new and I will not lose to a feeble child that is somehow both so much more and so much less._

 _I am afraid I haven't much else to say, so I will simply wish you the best and hope the worst became of the creature. How sorry I am for being foolish and momentarily compromised. I foresee redemption much as I foresee your return._

 _Do not keep me waiting, dear._

Ollivander grinned at Allen unnervingly for too long but he did not make a move towards his healthily stacked shelves. He just stared. And stared. And stared. Allen was about to ask him if perhaps there was something on his face when finally the old man's face twitched. His eyes blinked shut at different times as if each belonged to a different person and one by one his facial features twitched as if each were attached to its own string and the puppeteer was having a nervous breakdown. It hadn't really occurred to Allen that all that time had been spent analysing him, but when the man's overgrown grey brow creased, there was no doubt that that was what had happened.

"I hate to overuse a word like this," His voice was soft and dreamy in a barely there sort of ethereal way. It sounded like it was fading away. There was somehow something dusty about it.

"But this is curious too?" Allen finished for him. Ollivander smiled a sort of vague grin that could have been saying any number of things that Allen may have missed.

"Could you take that off?" His wide eyes drifted to Allen's gloved hand and Harry felt his own following even though he was very aware of the mangled limb sitting beneath the thin fabric. Allen sighed a little and tensed his shoulder ready for the inevitable recoil he was glad to have not already gotten from a glance at his face. He peeled the glove away and tucked it into his back pocket before extending his arm straight out in front of him and presenting it to Ollivander. He blinked slowly once but then that was it. No further betrayal of surprise fluttered across his extreme features and Allen internalised a sense of relief. Ollivander delicately reached out and used only the tips of his fingers to rotate Allen's forearm. It was as though he was making sure the inflamed-looking flesh was not sore to the touch, It wasn't. Ollivander's eyes flashed silver and glassy when the cross was revealed to him. Then his face bloomed with excitement.

Allen felt that surely, much like so many of the emotions the man had shown them since they had arrived, it must be at least marginally misplaced.

"I like a challenge, Mr…..Walker," And there it was again, that pause that spoke volumes but not nearly enough. There was an answer hidden there but Allen could only hear that there was one and not at all what it was. "And you surely seem to be a challenge,"

Ollivander skipped the stacks of thin, dusty boxes he had beelined for when Harry and presumably anyone else was attempting to buy a wand. Instead he made for the rickety looking ladder that was darting about the shelves as if on a mission of its own. As soon as he had a foot hooked around the lowest rung it came to a sudden and decisive halt, seemingly exactly where it was needed. With a seemingly substantial deal of difficulty, the man clambered up onto a ledge above the shelves and shuffled to the side so that he may pull open a small door. Allen and Harry just watched on, confused, from below as a cloud of dust was released and the hinges squealed like a mistreated animal.

He crawled into the new space and suddenly it was glowing faintly with a gold tinged light. There was a clash, a clatter, an exclamation that followed a crash which was maybe a box falling onto Ollivander's head. He returned a moment later, a series of boxes levitating along behind him, each as covered in dust as he was. Ollivander joined them again momentarily.

The boxes fell onto the countertop behind Ollivander as he stared at Allen again, eyes glazed over with excitement Allen really did not understand. There was a cobweb caught in his hair and a smattering of dust across his nose and cheeks. He reached behind him and grabbed the first of what would be many boxes. Ollivander blew off some of the dust, revealing the emerald crushed velvet beneath. He opened it and pulled out the wand. It was dark and slender, knobbled as if it had been pulled right off of the tree. Allen carefully received it when it was offered to him, trying to find a comfortable way to hold it. He didn't quite succeed. When he waved the wand it spat out a small amount of light but Ollivander had already snatched back the wand before he got the chance to properly comprehend it.

There was a cycle of wands after that. One after the other. SOme were snatched back from his slack grip as soon as the first, others were left to linger a moment more as Ollivander considered but were eventually plucked back with a shake of the head. With each, Ollivander only grew more and more ecstatic. He loved a difficult customer.

Then came the final box.

Ollivander eyed it with a tinge of doubt that made Allen's heart thump. Still, Ollivander approached the box. His veiny hands shook and his face was caught somewhere between anticipation and apprehension. The crushed velvet of this one was amethyst rather than emerald and the air around it had a strange, fuzzy quality. It rippled a little, like it was emitting some great quantity of heat. Allen gulped.

Ollivander cautiously picked up the white grip between his thumb and forefinger and held the instrument as far away from his body as he was able. It didn't exactly fill Allen with confidence. The wand was placed against his palm and he almost forgot to wrap his fingers around it before it fell to the floor., The carved, neatly shaped handle was porous and it felt odd to hold, like it was intrinsically wrong, yet at the same time it felt much more like it belonged in his hand than any of the others he had held. Ollivander stepped back and, before Allen got the chance to make the flourish Ollivander had previously encouraged of them, a bright green light burst from the end and filled the room. It died out after a minute, shrinking to an orb at the end of the wand before fading completely. Still, a green light remained.

Three pairs of eyes drifted to Allen's hand. The cross was glowing, the same jewel-toned green that had filled the space moments before. It lasted for a moment more before it too was gone.

Confusion passed across Ollivander's features before it was replaced with glee.

"What a superbly interesting customer you are, I hope to see you again soon Allen Walker, when you accomplish something great,"

"What is it?" Allen gestured to the wand in his hand, noticing that Ollivander hadn't given him the same rundown of its properties as he had supplied Harry with.

The old man shook his head "I'm afraid that information is lost to time," His eyes squinted "But I think that might be-"

"Bone?" Allen finished for him.

"Bone," Ollivander confirmed.

"Bone?" Harry echoed, concerned

"Not that I could tell you what from," Ollivander said.

"No, no, it's okay," Allen responded hurriedly "Forget I asked I don't think I even want to know,"

Hagrid arrived a moment later, drumming his hairy knuckles on the glass at the front of the door. Harry looked out past him and saw that his weren't the only eyes looking through the window. People in the alley outside turned to look at him and Allen, attention piqued by the bright green light that had appeared from seemingly nowhere. Rather than choosing to focus on the unfamiliar faces pulled tight with curiosity and intrigue, staring at the boys like animals in a zoo, he drew his attention back to Hagrid and only Hagrid. He spared a glance at Allen who was standing by his side, rather pointedly doing the same thing.

Beneath the masses of matted beard, Hagrid was grinning proudly, holding a cage in one hand, another sitting safely on the floor pressed against his leg. Harry and Allen passed Ollivander the golden coins in the currency they didn't truly understand, hoping that they'd gotten in right, Judging by the thanks Ollivander gave them, it seemed they were fine. He waved them off and they darted outside to meet Hagrid.

He was bouncing on his toes, happy as could be. He picked up the other cage in his gargantuan hands and thrust them towards Harry and Allen like an excitable child who simply couldn't wait a single moment longer. There was an owl in each.

Harry fumbled to grab the cage Hagrid presented him with. There was a snowy owl perched within the bars, peacefully dozing with its head tucked delicately beneath its speckled white wing. He stared at the majestic creature in awe, watching the gentle movements of its body and the way that its soft downy feathers ruffled slightly in the wind.

Allen accepted the gift carefully and watched the owl he had been given. Its feathers were like golden honey, a very similar colour to its intelligent eyes that looked back up at him full of mischief and intelligence. Its beak was sharp and almost looked as if it was smiling. There was something almost familiar in its face, like they had met before in another time, another life. A name popped into his head immediately and he whispered it under his breath so quietly Harry and Hagrid would certainly not be able to hear it.

"Timcanpy" the word pushed itself past his lips before he really had the chance to think it over. Those bright eyes met his and he could have sworn the bird winked at him.

* * *

Being back in Little Whinging felt so strange. It was like the boys had been exposed to something wondrous and then removed from it after being allowed only that first glance behind the curtain. They were aching for more of that; that place where they actually belonged.

Rows of two-storey brick houses with tiled roofs, neatly trimmed lawns, street signs and underpasses covered in scrawled graffiti. Everything was just so ordinary, so mundane. The birds sung in the mornings and the crickets chirped in the long grass, cars rumbled along the roads and children called out to each other as they ran around the streets. It was all so mundane.

Harry and Allen were sitting together in the little rundown park opposite the audience. It was surprisingly empty, only a solitary dog walker there with them, wandering alone outside the fence bordering the playground. The boys were perched on the swings watching the labrador running across the grass. The worn-down swings squeaked everytime one of them fidgeted.

"I can't wait to go back," Allen blew out a slow breath and pushed his hair off of his face.

"Me neither," Harry looked up at the sky, following the shape of the white clouds "But seriously, when are you going to cut that?"

Allen pulled a hairband from his wrist and tied the offending hair into a loose ponytail at the base of his neck "I keep it to annoy you," Harry shook his head, making his own hair move in front of his eyes "Besides, I think you're something of a hypocrite,"

Harry didn't have a response so he just steered the conversation back to the topic of the wizarding world. Together they mused about what Hogwarts might be like. What they might learn, what the teachers might be like, what the other students would be like.

"Lots of these kids were raised by wizards," Harry brought up eventually "I feel like an outsider, and I think we might be a bit behind,"

Something in Allen's brain told him that he was used to being an outsider. He almost felt comfortable with the thought of going into a new environment, completely unaccustomed. Like it was an adventure and not some big daunting prospect. He refused to be scared. "And lots of them will have been raised like us," Allen reminded, maybe meaning that they had been raised in the world without magic more than meaning they had suffered Allen or Harry's questionable upbringing. "We'll be fine," He said it like a promise, knowing full well he couldn't promise anything.

* * *

When the first of September rolled around and the country started to cool again Harry rode into London with Joe and Allen. Vernon was heading into London that day too, to sort out Dudley's tail-he wondered what his uncle was going to say to the doctor. Joe was sitting behind the wheel of the old car, visibly nervous and looking back at Allen and Harry every spare moment, as if to check they were still there and hadn't somehow vanished. Harry wondered how he was going to cope once Allen had actually learnt some magic; he couldn't wait to see it.

Joe drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. As soon as they reached a red light he reached up to scratch at the scar on his face. Allen knew it probably wasn't itchy: Joe scratched at it whenever he was nervous or confused, or lying. It was a very distinct tell. Allen had played poker with him a number of times and he had always won without even needing to cheat, it was an obvious tell. "Do you boys have your train tickets?"

Harry pulled both of them from his pocket, not trusting Allen to not lose his own. Allen grabbed one and scrutinised it. His eyebrows drew inwards and the scar on his face warped with them. His hair covered the top of the scar, disguising the pentacle. Harry had to admit it was less eye-catching that way.

"How the hell do we get to platform nine and three quarters?" Harry wondered how on earth he had managed to miss that detail, eyes darting down to look at the ticket Allen hadn't grabbed.

"Magic?" Joe suggested. Maybe he was joking, maybe he wasn't. Either way, he was almost definitely right.

It wasn't long before he was swinging the old car around into the carpark in front of Kings Cross station. He pulled into an empty space before jumping out of the car and ushering Harry and Allen to follow suit. He pulled open the boot and then left the boys to collect their own effects. He honestly didn't know whose trunk was whose but he was definitely familiar with Allen's owl: the little shit liked to peck at him whenever it was allowed out of its cage.

"Good riddance," he told Timcanpy, half joking, half deadly serious. The owl looked back at him, eyes full of disturbingly human mischief and understanding. Its beak nipped at the air as if the bird was pretending Joe had stuck his fingers through the bars.

"Bastard,"

"Joe!" Allen's voice was both accusing and amused. The man in question straightened his posture and presented Allen with his pet, pretending he hadn't been insulting it moments before. He started scratching at his scar again.

He walked the boys into the train station. He'd been there a couple of times before, but it was clear from Allen and Harry's entranced stares that neither of them had been. Sure, it was an impressive building, but he was honestly surprised at their reactions knowing they had glimpsed into the wizarding world. How impressive could the tall, intricately designed ceiling be compared to that? Still, Harry and Allen stared above them.

"I'm going to leave you here," Joe told them, "I don't think I can help you much more," He made a brief visit to the nearby Costa coffee kiosk before he left. Paper cup in hand, he waved as he walked away.

They walked in the direction the signs labelled platform nine and ten, dragging their trunks behind them on trolleys. The owls earned them a few odd looks from both commuters and employees. They tried their best to ignore them.

Stopping when they reached the intersection between platforms nine and ten, they examined their surroundings for any sort of clue as to where they needed to go. There wasn't really any, or at least not anything clear. "Maybe the border between the platforms?" Allen guessed. It would make sense, or at least as much sense as anything could in a world where magic existed. Regardless, neither of them was willing to be wrong and crash into the brick pillar. They were conspicuous enough already; they really didn't need the extra attention and possible suspicion that would draw.

Luckily enough, they heard something before they needed to test their essentially baseless theory.

"As always, full of muggles," They both turned their heads in search of the source of the voice. It didn't take long before they spotted the large red-headed family who were standing almost directly behind them. The mother was plump and maternal looking, dressed in loudly patterned, mismatching clothes. Her youngest child-the only girl amongst the considerable crowd of children around her-was clasping her hand tightly, like she was scared of getting lost. Maybe her sense of direction was comparable to Allen's.

"Excuse me," Harry and Allen wandered towards her, Harry leading because they both knew that his appearance elicited less of a reaction from the general public "Could you tell us how to…?"

Her kind face screwed up for a second before she realised what Harry was saying "Oh! You want to know how to get onto the platform?" Harry nodded and Allen walked out from behind him. He noticed the kind woman's face twitch with concern and her freckled hand moved upwards from her side for a moment as if there was some impulse to ghost her fingers over his scar. She schooled her face quickly and her hand fell to her side but they both knew what her initial reaction was.

"Just go through the barrier between platforms," She told them. Allen grinned smugly at Harry: _told you so._ "Best to do it at a bit of a run if you're nervous," her thin lips tilted into a gentle smile. There were a few similarities between her and Annabelle that made Allen feel a bit more at ease around her.

"Thank you," His voice was still soft and young, it still didn't seem right to him-he was sure at one point his voice had been deeper, less childlike and more commanding. It was a strange feeling seeing as he was well aware he wasn't aging backwards. Of course, the ginger lady wouldn't know this.

"It's not a problem dears," her eyes kept trying to look on Allen's and he was almost sure it was a conscious attempt to not focus on the bold red line cutting through his face "It's Ron's first year at Hogwarts as well," She pushed forwards the lanky, awkward boy who was lingering awkwardly behind her. He openly gaped at Allen's face so he pulled his hair across his face to cover it. He could only see through one eye but at least it hid the offending scar. The boy had long features, pasty skin covered in freckles and a smudge of dirt on his nose. Allen pointed to his own nose to indicate that fact to the boy but he didn't notice. The three first years introduced themselves to each other calmly and quietly. Then Ron's mum spoke again "I'm Molly Weasley, by the way dears, and we best be getting to the platform, Fred will go first,"

"Et tu, Mum?" The teenager she had gestured to asked mockingly. ALlen could sense dishonesty even if he couldn't quite identify a distinct tell.

"Yeah!" His identical twin joined in "He's not Fred!"

"He's Fred!"

"And I'm George!"

"Oh, sorry George dear," The woman's cheeks flushed red.

"I'm only joking Mum, I am Fred," Molly tutted and gently hit the back of his head.

"Cheeky buggers," She chuckled beneath her breath "Get onto the platform," and, with an amount of confidence that would have been concerning to Harry not very long ago, he ran at the brick pillar.

Harry braced himself to witness a crash and hear the horrible noise of the metal of the trolley crashing into the brick as all of his belongings clattered to the ground. But it never came. As if the wall was never there, he fazed right through it. His twin followed before Molly ushered Harry and Allen to abandon all caution and run straight for the barrier. Harry screwed up his face in what was definitely fear, and Allen grinned as if there was something exciting happening. Molly didn't miss the difference in their expressions as they ran. Then they disappeared.

Harry didn't open his eyes until they were through to the other side, but Allen hadn't closed his. He really wanted to know what exactly was happening. Everything went dark for a moment, the shape of the bricks just barely visible as if they were just in an unlit room. And then suddenly everything was light again. This side of the platform was completely different from that which they had left. They were essentially in the open and this platform was also bustling with life but the general appearance of the commuters could not have been more difficult. With a few exceptions, it was all families with teenagers and pre-teens, dragging along copious amounts of luggage. The clothing was similar to what they had seen in Diagon Alley, most dressed in strange wizarding garbs, some dressed in mismatched muggle clothing, fewer dressed in sensibly pieced together, perfectly ordinary outfits.

As Molly watched the two scrawny boys the same age as her own youngest son disappear through the wall she vowed that she was going to protect and look after them as much as she could. She had any number of rational reasons to believe that they'd been lacking the sort of mother figure she was eager to be to them for quite a while. She smiled as she pushed Ron to follow them.

* * *

 **A/N**

 **Hi there, it's been a while, huh? Sorry about that, there is no real excuse but I'm back and I'm sure you can probably guess why. I will be genuinely surprised if anyone is still interested in this story, but if you are, welcome back, if you're just now finding it, welcome. I'll be honest, I had genuinely forgotten what the plan for this was, and I kinda sorta left the document detailing my plans. So, with a bit of research, I kind of rediscovered what my plan was and I will say that it is probably really easy to figure out who Allen's mum is, seeing as I've kind of indicated that his parents are both death eaters and neither is a Malfoy (I don't think Narcissa actually is a death eater anyway) which leaves like two named females that it could be, so yeah. I hope everyone is staying safe, staying home when possible, and actually following the advice.**

 **All the best,**

 **We'reAllABitOdd**


	4. Welcome Home

_My dear, the apprehension only builds. I know there is nothing that can be said at this moment in time that may reverse the failures of the past, but if I am to find out that my fears are realised I will turn to action. Action may end_ _ **it**_ _and action may save you, release you. Your freedom is of paramount importance and I promise that if I could I would have you here by my side. Perhaps I would be reunited with you at the altar. I need you to know my feelings do not fade._

 _I fear to tell you that I have spoken to friends who have spoken of encounters in the alley with a strange child, a sickly green glow bursting forth from Ollivanders and illuminating the streets with its tainted light. White hair, strange scar, long sleeves, gloves, and still a moment of strange glow that existed away from the wand entirely. The devil lives on but at the very least we now know where and I'm certain I may now begin to be proactive about this issue._

 _I don't know that i can promise when or how, but I'm certain that when the opportunity arises I will not miss it. Not again. A bug, perhaps, may aid my pursuits, tell me when the time is right. A buzz in my ear will bring an end._

* * *

Harry and Allen bustled with little grace onto the old-fashioned steam train that was casually expelling clouds of tinted smoke into the air above it as it sat stationary on the tracks. They wandered somewhat listlessy along the long narrow passage that certainly seemed much longer than the vehicle had from the outside. They were looking for an empty compartment, looking through the windows and seeing that almost every compartment they passed was already occupied. They were reaching the end of the passageway when they finally found an empty one.

The seats were plush and patterned in loud colours; almost comparable to regular muggle bus seats though less scratchy and much softer. The colours were fading in areas, worn down and never restored in spite of the fact that it was probably a very easy thing to do with magic. Harry supposed it added some amount of charm and character. There were warmly coloured curtains pinned to the wall at either side of the window that occupied most of the outer wall of the compartment, allowing the bright light from the sun to stream through the clean glass and illuminate the inside of the compartment with a slight yellow tinge. The fabric was thick and heavy and would almost certainly fulfill its purpose effectively. There was a table protruding from the same wall, just beneath the window.

They sat down next to each other on one of the cushioned benches. They could feel the floor and seats rumbling beneath them with the steady grumbling of the engine. Allen closed his eyes and tilted his head back, feeling oddly accustomed to the surroundings already.

It wasn't long until the lanky ginger boy-Ron-joined them. His head was bowed and his eyes were trained on the scuffed toes of his shoes. "Can I sit with you?" he looked up. The dirt was still on his nose. Allen tapped the side of his own and Ron finally seemed to get the message. Crimson rose beneath his freckles and he rubbed his nose with the hem of his t-shirt. The smudge was gone, a slightly irritated red mark left in its wake. Allen smiled gently. "It's just that everywhere else is full,"

"Sure," Harry said, knowing that Allen wouldn't mind him giving permission on his behalf. Allen gave another smile and a gesture then invited Ron to take a seat across from them, so he did exactly that. The seat sunk underneath his weight and Allen pulled his feet up onto the chair in front of him, legs tucked neatly and comfortably up to his chest.

"Is it true?" Ron looked at Harry, eyes simultaneously kind and unsure "You're Harry Potter? It;s just that Fred and George were saying…"

"Yeah," Harry responded calmly if a little unsurely, unaware of his own so-called legend.

"Is it true that you have the…" Ron made a vague gesture at his own face "Y'know," his voice dropped as if he was scared to speak too loud "The scar," Allen raised his eyebrows at that. As did Harry. He'd been friends with Allen for so long and had gotten very much used to his own scar being practically invisible in comparison.

Still, Harry grinned a little and pushed up his fringe so Ron could see the lightning bolt above his eyebrow. Ron stared at it for a moment, mouth agape, before voicing a simple thought.

"Cool," He breathed. Harry dropped his hair but Ron didn't stop staring at the area where his ebony fringe covered the scar. It took a few ticks but his eyes drifted to Allen. "So what's the deal with," He gestured vaguely in Allen's general direction, lack of tact quickly evident.

"You just gestured to all of me," he grinned, trucking a strand of hand behind his ear. Ron noted the way that a point of the pentacle was suddenly visible, poking out from beneath the fine strands of alabaster.

"You know what I mean," Ron sighed and, following Harry's example, Allen pulled his hair to the side so that Ron could see the full thing. "Is that magical too?" Ron said.

"I don't know," Allen shrugged, his hair falling back into place "It's been there as long as I can remember,"

Ron traced the rough shape of a star on the surface of the chair beside him. It wasn't particularly difficult to understand why. "I don't know what else would make that shape," He twiddled his own hair between two fingers as if he was feeling left out. "Are your parents wizards?"  
Allen sighed. This conversation was becoming heavy very quickly and he really wasn't sure he liked it too much. "According to Ollivander," he looked out of the window, hoping that would signify to Ron that the conversation was over.

Ron looked like he was about to speak again, about to start asking questions, so Harry spoke instead, quietly and only to Ron, but not so much so that Allen couldn't hear. He leant forwards as he spoke. "He lost them as a baby," Harry explained "he never knew them," It was true but not so explicitly so that it explained just how exactly Allen had lost them. He appreciated that. It wasn't the nicest of stories.

"Oh," Ron said, looking across the compartment at the two orphans. Allen and harry waved him off, both very much accustomed to their situations. There was a beat before a grin spread across Allen's face and he dipped his hand into his jacket pocket. Harry gulped: he knew what that meant.

"So, Ron," Allen put his hand on the table, clearly concealing something "Do you know how to play poker?" He moved his hand, revealing a somewhat tattered white box of playing cards.

"Say no!" Harry urged in a desperate whisper. But Ron just stared at Allen as his pale eyes flashed with a conspiratorial, evil glint.

"I don't," Ron said. It wasn't a lie.

"I'll teach you," Allen dismissed. Ron almost wished he'd found a different compartment. Harry could say the same.

* * *

Eventually a little old woman with a trolley full of all sorts of sweets showed up at their compartment, face alight with a genuine smile, cheeks red and eyes squinty.

"Anything off the trolley dears?"

"No thanks: I'm all sorted," Ron said with a grimace, waving some rather squashed looking sandwiches in a sandwich bag. He dropped the bag on the table and stared at it with no lack of contempt.

"I'm alright, thanks," Allen said, not because it was particularly true but because his funds were limited and a cursory glance proved he was entirely unfamiliar with every single one of the treats on offer.

Harry didn't have similar concerns or reservations. His wallet jingled as he procured it from a pocket on the inside of his jacket. "We'll take the lot!" he announced with a grin.

A copious amount of sweets spilled onto the small table in front of them, all four boys staring at them in open awe. Ron fished out his sandwiches from underneath the pile and opened the plastic bag.

"Corned beef," he lamented "I hate corned beef,"

"You can help yourself," Harry told him as he resealed the bag, food inside untouched.

"You're serious?" Ron's eyes went wide and Allen looked up from the cards he was shuffling in his lap, no particular purpose in mind. Ron had never had much and he couldn't believe that suddenly he was being offered as much as Harry was seemingly willing to give.

"Of course, and that goes for both of you," Harry told them with a smile as sincere as any Allen had seen over the last two years they had known each other for. He hadn't had so much as a mars bar to share with anyone before, and had only ever really had Allen to share with. Allen had never had anything to share either and they'd both been content with that, but now that Harry had something to give he was more than willing to do so.

So they all dug in, Ron serving as something of a guide to the world of wizard sweets. "Those are chocolate frogs," He informed them as Harry picked up a rather intricately patterned and interestingly shaped little box. Harry pulled the lid off and, before he could blink, the frog-shaped block of milk chocolate hopped out of the box.

"Don't worry," Ron said as Harry watched it near the open window, "It's the cards you want. They've only got one good jump in them anyway," He had obviously been expecting the frog to disappear out of the window, and no one could blame him. But as he was mid-sentence a gloved hand reached into the air and pulled the frog out of it.

"Here," Allen said, passing it to Harry who eyed it apprehensively before taking a tentative bite. "Any good?"

"Yeah," harry shrugged and took an actually substantial bite "Just tastes like cadburys,"

"Maybe that's a conspiracy," Allen grinned as he reached forward and grabbed a liquorice wand from the tabletop. He nibbled on it, noting that Ron was staring at him with surprise.

"You're a weird person," Ron told him matter-of-factly before reaching across and picking up the box Harry had set down on the table. He pulled the card out of the bottom of it, looking over it. "You got Dumbeldore," He passed it over "I've got three of him,"

Harry and Allen watched it, the image of the man's face-maybe the size of a 50 pence piece and largely obscured by a considerable white beard and slightly skew-whiff wire-framed half moon glasses-smiled out at them and moved around within the small frame of the card. Harry looked up at Ron who seemed very much amused by their disbelieving entrancement, and when he looked back down the old man was nowhere to be found. Allen's eyes were focused to the side of the card, as if tracking where he may have gone.

"He's gone!" Harry exclaimed.

"Well yeah," Ron said as if it was obvious "You can't expect him to hang around all day,"

"Of course not," Allen whispered, eyes glazed over, clearly at least a little bit miffed "Why would I expect a photo to hang around all day? That's just stupid,"

* * *

The sun was hanging much lower in the sky, the light it was casting much more orange than the yellow from earlier, when the flustered looking boy appeared.

"Have any of you seen a toad?" he sounded frantic and he was looking intently at the floor as if hoping to find it there. His voice was slightly shaky as if he was on the verge of tears. He was wearing his new school uniform but the shirt was buttoned wonky and the robe was fastened incorrectly so it sat at an odd angles across his hunched shoulders

"No, sorry," Harry said.

"Are you okay?" Allen asked. The boy nodded as if not trusting himself to respond verbally. Not knowing what else to do, Allen handed him a chocolate frog from the pile they had long since abandoned "Here," he said. The boy stared at it for a moment before unsurely pocketing and thanking Allen with a mumble. Feeling like he should actually offer some consolation he continued speaking as the boy turned to leave, looking sullen. "I hope you find him,"

And the boy left with tears prickling in his eyes and his cheeks bright red.

Maybe half an hour later there was another guest to their compartment. This one seemed less upset but the question posed was the same. Her bushy hair bobbed about her shoulders as she walked, uniform robes skimming the ground behind her, brand new patent leather school shoes tapping a steady rhythm on the floor. Her face was schooled into an expression of overbearing calm, mouth relaxed, buck teeth peeking out over her thin lower lip, eyebrows laying flat, forehead wrinkle-free. But Allen noticed a glint in her eyes. A glint of apprehension and anxiety. Like she was trying to convince herself that this was all fine and she'd be okay but her theory had no particular bearing in any known reality and even she didn't believe it.

She had shown up as a conversation about pets that had stemmed from their previous visitor's predicament was coming to a head. Ron found himself rather jealous of harry and Allen and their owls (even if Harry was working very hard to convince him that he really shouldn't be and Timcanpy was less of an owl and more of a demon inhabiting an avian form), saying that all he had was a rather useless, lazy rat that, much like many of his other belongings, was second hand, if not third or fourth. He had pulled his wand from his pocket, holding it above the rodent with the intention of turning him yellow.

"Have you seen a toad?" her voice was as soft and young. They all answered in the negative but she continued to hover in the doorway. Her dark eyes ran over the compartment as if she were analysing it, landing on Allen for maybe a moment longer than was necessarily polite before she caught herself and moved along. Her eyes caught on Ron's wand, frozen in position, ready to cast a spell.

"Oh!" her eyes lit up. "Are you casting a spell?" She shuffled a little further into the compartment but made sure she was keeping the door open. Red crept up from beneath Ron's collar. "Well go on, let's see it then,"

Ron cleared his throat and stiffened his arm "Sunshine, daisies, butter, mellow," The girl cocked an eyebrow. It didn't sound particularly like any of the spells she had come across in her reading. "Turn this stupid fat rat yellow," he flourished his wand and a shock ran along the wood, diving to the rat. But that was about all that happened, aside from the energy being transferred to him causing the rat to squeak and run a short distance before he gave up and settled again only centimetres from where he had been previously. Ron sighed and gently jabbed the rat with the wand.

"Well it's not a very good spell, is it?" Ron didn't know if it was actually the way the girl spoke, every syllable well-enunciated, tone somewhat nasally (he might call it received pronunciation-definitely posh but also not quite the queen's english), or the fact that she was berating him, but he was very quickly starting to find her voice grating. "I've only tried a few simple spells myself," And Ron just wished she would _stop talking_ "But they've all worked for me," She shuffled backward as if she were about to leave and Ron had to suppress the urge to expel a sigh of relief. "You should really get changed soon, you know," She stepped beyond the door and put her hand on it as if about to slide it closed "I expect we'll be arriving soon,"

And then she was gone. Ron tilted his head backwards and made a noise akin to a whinny. "Thank God. She was really getting on my nerves,"

"I don't think she meant to," Allen leant forward, elbows braced on his knees. He was watching the door where the girl had been only a moment before "I think she's just nervous,"

Ron snorted. "That didn't look like nervous to me,"  
Allen sat back in his chair and looked at Ron, eyebrows raised "Did it not?" He seemed so sure of himself that Ron didn't even want to argue. He had a feeling he'd lose..

So instead he conceded. "Bloody hell," His voice was quiet, "You're a perceptive bugger, ain't you?" Allen grinned and Harry glanced between them, not knowing what to make of the conversation.

* * *

Ron hated to admit it, but it seemed the bushy-haired girl had been right about them needing to change into their uniforms quickly. He had barely finished changing when the train sputtered to a stop, slowing very gradually before halting and lurching backwards slightly as it did so. He struggled not to fall over himself, having been stood up at that moment, trying to fasten his cape correctly so it didn't resemble the one the boy from earlier had been wearing. He stumbled, leg crashing into the seat, hip connecting painfully with the table, upper body folding forwards. His hands searched for purchase on the wall they fell against. There was no particular purpose for it but he had panicked and that is what his instincts had decided was appropriate. Allen giggled at him. He stood up, grabbing his folded robe off of the chair beside him and casting it about his shoulders. He fastened it instantaneously, perfectly settled, clasp central over his sternum.

Ron stared at him and just earned himself another grin. "I don't get you," Ron declared.

"Trust me," Harry corroborated "That doesn't get any better,"

"You wound me potter,'' Allen clasped his hands over his heart and his hair fell in front of his face, but it was still alight with his amused grin. Harry shoved him and the three of them exited the train together, legs stiff after hours of being largely stationary. Allen hopped down onto the platform of Hogsmeade station first, stretching as soon as he wandered away from the entrance. His back popped loudly and Ron shot him a grimace.

Harry looked around the platform, looking past the sea of teenagers all dressed in almost identical clothes and quickly seeing hagrid. The gargantuan man stood easily a foot taller than the second tallest person in the crowd. His hair was as wild as ever, windblown much like his ruddy face. Harry and Allen waved but went largely unnoticed, being rather short in a rather dense crowd. So they pushed their way through the crowd, Ron following them without question. Hagrid was calling "First years," loudly in his rumbling voice that easily made its way through the crowd.

"Three to a boat," he told them when he had gathered the entirety of the first years. He looked even taller surrounded by the group of 11-year-olds. Their group was standing to the side of the lake. The sun was low in the sky by then, barely illuminating the black body of water they were standing beside. What little light did make it to the water didn't provide any clue as to what might exist beneath the surface, instead just glimmering gently in different colours on the largely smooth surface. The wind caused a few slight ripples, but it was otherwise largely abyssal in appearance: like one would approach the lake and, as soon as they got close enough, would be sucked in, all of a sudden lost to time and space.

There was a gathering of small wooden boats at the edge of the ater, wood darken where the liquid had touched it. They were directed towards them and it didn't take Harry, Allen, and Ron long to decide to clamber into a boat together. Allen climbed in last, lacking any particular grace but also not finding the task to be particularly difficult. Of course, some people's attempts might suggest otherwise.

The smarmy blonde boy with the pinched ferret-y face he and Harry had seen briefly in Diagon Alley was sitting in a boat, attempting to look dignified with his legs forced up by his chin because of the limited available space, two large boys tucked behind him l;ike sardines in a can, the one at the back soaked up to his waste in tepid lake water. The boy who had lost his toad had managed to get into the boat he was sharing with the girl who had been helping him and a rather petite girl with mousy brown hair. It seemed that his difficulty was in staying that way. Rather surprisingly, the mundane-looking little vessels manoeuvred themselves confidently and swiftly across the lake without the need for oars. As his boat spluttered to life and began to move, the boy was seemingly caught off guard and found himself falling into the water. He was eventually pulled back into his boat, covered in algae and water, hair hanging limp and heavy in front of his eyes.

Allen shivered a little against the wind so he pulled the robe tighter around his shoulders. He watched over Ron and Harry's shoulders as the old stone castle rose into vision, imposing and looming. He had another one of those odd, unexplainable moments of deja vu where he felt a sudden pang of comfortable familiarity in his chest that made him question his sanity just a little as he reminisced on a life he had no memory of living.

They landed on a shore similar to the one they had left, large, wooden double-doors before them.

"Trevor!" the boy from earlier exclaimed, scooping up a toad and hugging the creature to his chest.

A wiry woman stood before them, face stern but not necessarily intimidating. Her hair was salt and pepper, secured in a tight, neat bun at the nape of her neck. It sat beneath the wide brim of her pointed, stereotypical witch's hat, made of the same emerald crushed velvet as the heavy robes hanging from her narrow shoulder.

She exchanged a few polite words with Hagrid before he left the first years with her, disappearing around some corner or other. She ushered them through the double doors and left them standing inside an ornate and old fashioned entrance, a wide staircase in front of them. She told them to wait as she left up the stairs as if checking on something. Harry gulped.

Then the ferret boy stepped gracefully to the front of the crowd just in front of him. His feet were planted firmly on the lowest step directly in front of Harry so there was no way for him to look past the blonde without appearing horrendously impolite.

"So it's true what they say," A thin smirk split his pale face. "Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts," He didn't speak particularly loudly but he seemed to know how to project his voice. The news hit every ear in the crowd and suddenly Harry could hear his voice travelling around him like an echo. "You're new here so I think I'll help you," He put his hand out in front of him as if waiting for harry to take it "You don't want to be hanging around with the wrong sort," he eyed Ron accusingly and, as Ron flushed, Harry suddenly felt more angry than uncomfortable.

"I think," Harry grit his teeth as he spoke and used the back of his hand to push the other boy's away "I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks,"

The other boy stood there frozen in surprise until the woman returned, tapping him firmly on the shoulder to urge him to remove to his place among the crowd. His ice blue eyes glinted with anger, like he was refusing to let Harry inflict any feelings of embarrassment or humiliation upon him.

They walked up the stairs as a unit, passing through a rather unremarkable door that led them to completely different surroundings than the ones they had just left.

There were wooden boards underfoot, lines of floating candles illuminating the area gently. A look up would demonstrate that there didn't appear to be any ceiling, instead he could easily see the turmoil within the dark vault of the sky outside. There was a stool sat central on the elevated wooden stage they entered onto, a tattered old hat taking pride of place beside it. Adjacent to that was a lectern, decorated with a metallic sculpture of an eagle.

They stood huddled on the corner of the stage, many of them sticking as close to the wall and as far from the thousands of eyes staring up at them from the four long tables below as they could. The woman left them in their huddle as she walked confidently across the stage, standing beside the stool with a long scroll that listed all of their names.

She started calling them out with "Abbott, hannah," Who stumbled unsurely towards her, settling herself apprehensively on the edge of the three-legged stool. The ratty old hat was lowered onto her head, instantly falling over her eyes. It sat there for a moment before a tear towards its flaccid rim pulled itself open like a mouth.

"Hufflepuff!" it declared grandly and the table dressed in yellow and accented in back erupted into a chorus of cheers, filling the hall with applause. She pulled the hat off of her head and handed it back to the teacher, shakily making her way to the table where she was quickly shown to a seat and welcomed with opening arms. Harry was fairly certain he got it-on some basis or other they were being sorted into houses.

The bushy-haired girl, Hermione Granger, was sorted into Gryffindor, as was the boy who had lost his toad, Neville Longbottom. The smarmy boy, Draco Malfoy, and his lackeys, Crabbe and Goyle, were all sorted into Slytherin, none seeming at all surprised or taking particularly long to sort.

And eventually it was Harry's turn.

He wandered up to the stool, hands shaking. There was still that little section of his brain that said that this may all be a mistake yet, that maybe he didn't belong here, that they picked up the wrong Harry Potter. Still, he sat.

He was surprised to hear the hat's voice speaking within his head, only to him. It mused, for what may have been minutes or seconds or possibly even an hour (or at least it felt that way) about whether to choose Slytherin or Gryffindor. _Not Slytherin,_ he urged and the hat echoed him before deciding.

 _Well then, I suppose it better be "_ Gryffindor!" The cheer he received was the loudest yet and was eagerly accompanied by some joking wolf-whistles from Ron's older brothers.

Before long, the crowd was thin and most of the alphabet had been passed. Lucian Vasquez was sorted into Ravenclaw and then there was only Allen, Ron, and one other boy left standing there, all looking very exposed and very unsure.

"Walker, Allen," the teacher's voice called and Allen shuffled to where he needed to be, trying as hard as he could to ignore the whispers and chatter that accompanied him. He was used to it, except not on such a large scale. He sat and the hat covered his eyes, meaning he couldn't see Harry as his friend propped his crossed fingers up and mouthed _good luck_ across the hall.

 _And I thought I'd already met the most interesting student of the year,_ the hat's voice carried a feeling of amusement as well as a sense of bewilderment, _I don't know whether to congratulate or console you. So much here,_ It sounded almost gleeful _and so much of it you don't even know how to access._ Then it went silent and Allen was left sitting there, feeling very awkward and wondering what the hell the hat was talking about.

Until eventually the foreign voice reappeared.

 _All the more intriguing,_ It mused, _In all this history I can see so much, too much maybe. I think, Mr. Walker, you could belong in everyone of these houses._

* * *

 **A/N**

 **Hi all! I was very happy to see that people were still interested, I'm definitely having fun going back to writing it.**

 **This is the part of the author's note where I talk about whatever the hell I want so feel free to leave now if you'd like. I just have a little recommendation to everyone who lives in the UK (and hasn't already seen it) or has a VPN that would give them access to UKTV Play (I also think that some episodes are on dailymotion if you don't) that you watch Taskmaster. Things are probably kind of boring for a lot of people right now and it is the most ridiculous show ever and I love it so much. It's basically just competitive nonsense where a bunch of comedians are competing in completely pointless lateral thinking tasks. If you are from the UK, chances are you'll be familiar with at least one of the competitors every season, if you aren't then maybe not, but it's still a lot of fun.**

 **And, with that recommendation, I shall leave you.**

 **All the best,**

 **We'reAllABitOdd**


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